


Soup cans and sweetness

by childrenofthebarricade



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dorks in Love, M/M, Sickfic, feeeeelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 10:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17384837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childrenofthebarricade/pseuds/childrenofthebarricade
Summary: Aziraphale catches a cold. Crowley catches Feelings.(and I write self-indulgent fluff when I'm sick)





	Soup cans and sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I'm gonna write a fic where they're semi-competent at hiding their love for each other and this provides some sense of narrative tension!  
> Also me: continues to make Crowley a dork who gets blindsided by how in love he is and Aziraphale the most husbandy of husbands. Whoops. 
> 
> Anyway, here's some nonsense.

In retrospect, it’s a little silly that after all this time and all that they’ve been through together, Crowley still considers it necessary to construct some excuse each time he barges into Aziraphale’s bookshop, ignoring the “closed” sign on the front door. Still, whatever relationship- whatever Arrangement they might have, Crowley can’t very well have it getting around that he spends time with an angel because he wants to. 

So he let himself in and wove his way between the messy shelves with some meaningless justification on the tip of his pointed tongue, but it evaporated instantly as he opened the door to the back room to find a certain blonde-haired angel curled like a moody cat beneath at least three blankets with a crumpled tissue stuffed up each nose. Crowley snorted with laughter and Aziraphale looked up from the remote that he’d been listlessly switching channels with. 

“Why, hello Crowley,” Aziraphale said, clearly trying to muster some sense of umbrage at the demon’s amusement, but sounding so comically nasel that Crowley just doubled over in a renewed fit of laughter. 

“Are you quite done?” 

“You’re sick? Really? You?”

Aziraphale pouted in a way not quite befitting a six thousand year old being. “My job happens to put my in contact with quite a few humans, many of whom don’t wash their hands quite as much as my side would prefer. Especially the children.” Realizing how silly he sounded, he removed the tissues from his nose and immediately sneezed. Crowley failed to hold back a smirk. “Anyway, you could be a little nicer while I’m sick and dying.” 

“Pffft. You’re not dying, Angel. That’d be a little anticlimactic, don’t you think?” As Crowley spoke, he disappeared around the corner into the little kitchen and started rummaging through the cabinets. 

“Well, the universe is anticlimactic. The apocalypse was anticlimactic. Really, it would only make sense for a simple human cold to be the thing that takes me out for good.” 

“If you weren’t supposedly dying, I’d come over there and show you something very climactic, if you catch my drift,” Crowley said, sticking his head back through the door to throw Aziraphale a wink. 

“Very mature, my dear.” He rolled his eyes, but his voice was full of poorly-concealed affection. Crowley disappeared back into the kitchen, shortly followed by a rather alarming crash. 

“Crowley? What are you doing in there anyway?”

“I’m just trying to-” he cursed and appeared in the doorway again, this time holding a can of chicken soup in one hand and a can opener, which he was currently glaring daggers at, in the other. “Why do these never work the way you expect them to? They have one fairly simple job and yet they absolutely refuse to carry it out, even when threatened with violence.” 

Aziraphale gave a sniffly laugh. “You seem to have forgotten that you were the one who invented those blasted things.” 

“Well yes, but obviously I never anticipated having to use one myself!” 

The angel smiled indulgently and the can’s lid popped open. Crowley shot him a petulant look that seemed to say well, yeah, but that wasn’t the Point, but said nothing.   
“What are you doing with that anyway?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley looked down at the can, his mouth twisted in a way that Aziraphale, if he didn’t know better, would almost call bashful. “Making you soup,” he said as though it were some sort of admission. “I mean, you somehow managed to get yourself sick like a human, so I thought… well, this is what another human would do if their- I mean, if someone who they- for someone who’s sick.”   
Crowley trailed off lamely and by the time Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, he had ducked back into the kitchen, ears turning a very non-demonic shade of pink which frankly charmed his companion more than any clever-tongued tempting. Wrapping his blanket around his shoulder and pushing himself up off the couch, he stumbled into the kitchen, where Crowley was turning on the flame under a small pot, silent, but still looking a little flustered. 

“You really are adorable when you’re like this,” said Aziraphale, looking fondly at the demon, who was still refusing to make eye contact. “Being sweet to me and hoping I won’t notice.” 

“You know, I’ve been called many things over the past several thousand years, but ‘sweet’ and ‘adorable’ have never been among them.” 

Aziraphale took a step closer which, in the cramped kitchen, left him nearly pressed up against Crowley’s back, his chin hooking over the demon’s shoulder. He was still warm from the couch and the closeness seemed to make Crowley relax and tense up all at once.   
“That’s because most of the ones describing you do not get the chance to know you as I have.” 

“‘Know me.’ Shall I assume you mean that in the biblical sense?” He smirked at the floor, voice deliberately lowered to a smooth purr whose affect was definitely not lost on Aziraphale, but he still jumped a little when Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“I do so like it when you flirt with me, even if it is entirely besides the point.” 

“And what exactly would be the point?” said Crowley, smiling as he turned around to face him. “You’re sick. People take care of the people they…” he trailed off. 

“Quite right. I suppose I’ll leave you to it then.” He stepped back out of Crowley’s personal space and made as if to leave, but stopped after a few steps. “Oh, and Crowley?”   
“Yes?” 

He took two long steps that left them face-to-face, even closer than before, before leaning in, open and straightforward and gentle, to kiss Crowley. Crowley shivered a little and melted into the touch, giving a little whine in the back of his throat when Aziraphale pulled away all too soon. “What was that for?” He murmured, looking a little dizzy.

Aziraphale smiled in a manner that can only be described as angelic. “I love you too, you silly old serpent.” 

“Hold on, I never said-” 

“You didn’t have to say anything. Now hush.”

He gave a predatory grin. “Make me.” 

 

Some time later, the soup still sat on the stove, forgotten. 

That is, until two days later, when a certain demon skulked his way into a bookstore with two tissues stuck up his nose and gave an honest-to-Someone hiss when a laughing angel offered him a bowl. 

“Was it worth it?” Aziraphale asked, dumping several blankets on top of Crowley before wrapping him up in sweater-clad arms and pulling him in to rest against a soft chest. Crowley’s snake eyes blinked up at him with sleepy affection. “Don’t be stupid, Angel.”   
And if they both knew which other three word phrase was hiding beneath that one, well, maybe it was worth a few runny noses.


End file.
